Who Else But You
by harpychick
Summary: Primarily a Cullen/Surana angsty romance, no coherent plot, follows the timeline of the game, roughly.
1. Of Cages and Caring, Meeting the Mage

A/N - property of Bioware.

* * *

She drifts into the Tower on a soft breeze at the height of summer. The evening air is balmy, heavily scented of flowers and water. The waves of Lake Calenhad gently rock the little boat that bears the small mageling-to-be and four Templar Knights. One of the Templars has pulled her into his lap, taking off his helm and gloves to pet her hair. She tugs at his beard with her tiny fingers as she sucks her thumb, and listens as the murmured conversation of the Knights flows around her.

She had been a frightened little wreck of a thing when they had finally found her, buried under a pile of rubbish in a back alley in Denerim. She had cried out when they uncovered her, tracing her touch on the Veil. Ser Merell had knelt heavily in his plate armor, and brushed the ragged hair from her gaunt, filthy face with all the gentleness of a father's care. Green eyes wide, tears welling, she wailed and threw herself at him, wrapping her too skinny arms around his neck, and pressing her cheek hard against his unforgiving steel shell. She led them to the still sparking corpse of a feral dog, and snuffling, eyes brimming, showed the kindly Ser Merell the vicious gash in her leg where it had bitten her, before she called down the wrath of the sky to make it stop.

They step over the threshold into the Tower, her bony little hand tucked into his calloused own, and Merell's hurried, hushed whispers to Ser Greagior make the Knight Commander sigh, but he nods. With a gentle tug, Ser Merell leads his waif to the dining hall, and sits her down for her first proper meal before sending her off with a woman mage for bathing and fitting of robes. She struggles briefly in the woman's arms, but Merell pats her cheek and gives promises to check in on her later. The frightened little girl subsides again, and the little mageling yawns. She nods, and snuggles into the mage's arms to be carried away.

* * *

He blows into the Tower on a winter wind, his armor frigid, cloak crusted in snow and ice. The tempestuous lake nearly capsizes the small boat, but Kester's skill keeps them afloat for the trip to the island. The cold wind bites at his cheeks, and he tucks the hood of his cloak tightly around his face. The stoic silence of the other three Templar Knights pleases him, unaccustomed as he is to conversation outside of tracking tactics.

He is eager for the journey to be over, to finally have a place to stow his gear, a bed to call his own that is not a bedroll in a camp, nor a cot in some barracks shared with dozens of other Templars, rotating in and out like seasonal workers. He holds no illusions that the Tower would offer privacy, but it would offer stability, and Cullen has come to find that to be something he craves.

They step over the threshold into the Tower, and are met by the Knight Commander himself. The four greet him with a synchronized salute, Ser Greagior nods in return, then gestures them to follow after him.

"Fourth floor, men. We all quarter there, though you'll find your posts all around the Tower. Eyes sharp, but keep your swords sheathed for now. I know some of you have been out hunting Maleficar for a while, but this is a very different kind of job." The Knight Commander glances at them over his shoulder. "These are all Circle Mages, as aware of the rules as we are. We don't need any unnecessary instances of violence or death. If you're feeling twitchy, be sure to let me, or one of your superiors know." He laughs. "We protect these mages from all threats, both within, and without."

Cullen is - surprised. Protective of the mages? He had not expected _THE _Ser Greagior, Knight Commander of the Circle Tower, legendarily ruthless in his pursuit of rogue mages, harsh in his punishments for breaking the rules, to be _protective _of his charges. In fact, he had rather expected that the whole Tower contingent to be on high alert, blades drawn, seeking Abominations in the shadowy nooks. He chuckles quietly to himself. It seems that the rumors might be a slight exaggeration after all.

"Don't mistake me, Sers. Abominations do happen. We do null and slay them, when they occur. But we do not strike down innocent mages, whose only crime is to irritate you, or, Maker forbid, frighten you." Ser Greagior leads them up another flight of stairs, and flings open the doors. "This is the Mages' quarters, as we've just left the Apprentice wing. As you can see, no Abominations, just this moment."

"Irving, would you care to meet the new Templars?" An older man approaches, beard grizzled and grey, and Cullen can feel the power in him, strong and tightly bound. "First Enchanter Irving," he gestures at the old man, "these are Sers Patrik, Cullen, Thian and Selwyn." He turns back to the Templars. "He is in charge of the mages, and has a voice in any decisions that need to be made regarding testing, Tranquility and Harrowing."

Cullen salutes the mage as he would a priest, right fist to left shoulder, lacking the plate banging of the military salute. At Ser Greagior's nod, the other Templars follow suit, and the First Enchanter nods, a slight smile nearly hidden by his beard.

"I would imagine, Greagior, that your men would appreciate keeping the introductions brief. It is cold outside, and they have been on the road for some while now." Irving turns to lead them through the Mage's quarters, around the bends in the corridor to yet another set of stairs. Cullen can hear whispers and movement in the rooms, and an occasional head is bold enough to poke out of a door, gaping at the unfamiliar faces before quickly hiding away again, often to hushed giggles. The Tower feels lived in, the cold stone warmed by breath and sound.

"The Great Library, the center of learning for generations of Circle Mages." Irving plays tour guide now, as he leads them into the towering stacks of books. "We've cleared out the apprentices for the moment. We don't always get the best reactions from Templars fresh from the hunt when a spell is cast, even in practice. However, this is where you'll get the most excitement in your guard duties, outside of the sparring grounds." His grin is infectious, and Cullen can't help but smile in return.

"You must have fireproofed the stacks, then, if you let them cast spells around the books." Irving and Greagior both turn, startled, to look at him. "Um. I dislike seeing books destroyed," he shrugs. "It would be a shame, but obviously, it has been thought of, and handled."

"Indeed," Irving murmurs, thoughtful. "We do not mind if you feel the urge to read any of the books that catch your eye, so long as they remain in the Tower. Just let the Librarian's assistant know which you borrow, if you do."

* * *

Cullen tosses his pack onto the bed with a relieved sigh. It is larger than he is expecting, with solid shelves separating the two halves of the room. He had briefly met his only roommate, Ser Bryant, as he headed off to his watch. Bryant had explained that they tried to stagger shifts, so that the two would rarely be in the room at the same time, offering the illusion of privacy. The bed is actually a bed, complete with mattress and pillows, which Cullen soon discovers were just a shade too soft, but far better than a cot, let alone the cold ground.

The Tower is not what he is expecting. From all he'd heard, it is a horrible place to be stationed, often ending up the last place a Templar is sent, a life sentence locked away with evil mages. He'd often doubted that Circle mages were evil, as such, but the idea of magic in the hands of so many in one place is a little intimidating. Cullen's skills have been praised, both Templar and fighter, and noticed by the Grand Cleric herself, which makes him wonder what he could have done to end up in the Circle Tower.

He shrugs out of his armor, strips off the padding, and grabs a towel off the pile someone had kindly left on a shelf. He heads down the corridor to the communal bath. He is shocked to discover a gravity shower system as well, another surprising luxury, one rarely seen outside palaces. He washes out his clothing as best he can in the shower. No telling when he'd get a chance to do laundry, or where he is to do it, and he is too tired to figure it out just then. Soon, squeaky clean, a little confused, very exhausted, slightly damp and with only a towel knotted around his hips, Cullen steps out into the hallway, and is promptly jolted.

A small body bounces off of him, hitting the floor in a flurry of tangled robes and limbs. A second body comes hurtling around the corner, shouting "Damn it, Surana, you can't chase that blasted thing through here! They'll kill you!" The second body belongs to a mage youth, black hair hanging in his eyes. He tugs frantically at the arm of the would-be battering ram, which, when Cullen focuses his gaze on it, resolves itself into one very surprised, slightly shocked elven girl, her long red hair done up in many tiny braids, her mouth hanging open as she gapes up at him.

He tilts his head to the side, bemused, as he looks from the tall skinny boy, not far from being a man, to the girl sprawled on the floor, not far from being a woman. Both are, he deduced by way of the blue robes, mage apprentices, too young to be Harrowed mages. He reaches down to the elf, who hesitates, eyes wide, than grasps his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She hurriedly straightens her robes.

Composed now, the elf appraises him. At Cullen's raised eyebrow, she blushes. "My thanks, Ser Templar, for your hand up." Her words are formal, but her voice is a touch breathless. "I regret to say, I do not recognize you, and this is a most…uncomfortable welcome to the Tower. My apologies."

Cullen bursts out laughing. Her demeanor is at complete odds with her choice of phrasing. The elven girl is nearly twitching now, trying desperately to seem composed, but the mischief in her bright green eyes is unmistakable. The boy, hiding behind her as best he could, is stark pale with fright, but unwilling to leave his friend to the unknown mercies of a new Templar. At his laugh, the girl relaxes, and starts gesturing behind her back, shooing the boy out the way they had come.

"If you happen to see a Mabari pup, Ser, could you kindly direct him to the apprentice wing? The little rascal wanted to play, and seems to have led us too far astray." She is backing away now, being pulled by the boy, who seems desperate to make an escape. Cullen nods, and she turned and scampered for the stairwell. "My thanks, Ser…"

"Cullen. And you are welcome." He grins and shakes his head. Just as she flees around the bend, the girl turns back to flash Cullen a brilliant smile and his breath catches. The smile transforms her from pretty to stunning, her vulpine features softening into sheer beauty. Dazed, Cullen finishes the trek to his quarters. He hangs his garments to dry on the windowsill, and falls into bed, thankfully devoid of dreams.

* * *

A cold nose in the crook of his neck pulls him halfway from slumber. _Share the blankets? It is_ cold_!_ The pup cocks his head, apparently trying to work out the best way to con his way under the pile of quilts. With a snort, Cullen lifts the top edge, and the pup wriggles in, settling its chilled furry body against his side.

"She wants you back in the apprentice wing, you know," he mumbles, too asleep to do more than inform. The pup smells surprisingly of fresh mint. Not very dog like at all.

The pup huffs. _You're warmer. She can feed me in the morning. If you ask nice, maybe she will feed you too? _

"I'm sure we'll work something out." His face hits the pillow again, and the warm rumble of breath lulls them both to sleep.

* * *

Neria closes the door to the fourth floor quickly, letting it bang shut. The laughter she had been holding in bubbles out, and she slumps against the wall. It is late enough that there is no one in the Great Library, but early enough that her howls of mirth won't wake anyone. The Templar standing guard does poke his head around the corner to check, but seeing her, smirks and returns to his post.

Jowan is livid. "Why, by Andraste's flaming smalls, would you chase that bleeding mongrel into the Templars' quarters! We could have been killed! We could have had our heads cut off with no warning!" He fumes, face turning red as she continues to laugh. "Maker's mercy, Surana, that is one of the new Templars you ran headlong into. Not one of your 'friends'," he hisses.

"Ah, you heard Greagior's speech earlier." She snorts, calming to occasional chuckles. "They know not to kill us for no reason. And anyway, he laughed. He's fine. But Maker save me, did you _see _him? Ser Cullen, I mean." She grins up at Jowan. "I've never seen a man who looked like…well, like that!"

Jowan grimaces. "You know, it comes from being all…Templar like. With the swords, and the _training to kill us_!"

She starts giggling again. "And the way he acted, you wouldn't think he is standing in the hall in nothing but a towel!" She puts the back of her hand to her forehead and sighs dramatically. "Now why can't I give my virginity to _him_?"

Rolling his eyes, Jowan grabs her wrist and drags her toward the stairs to the next level down. "Because, hmmm, let's see. You're a mage. And he is a Templar? That seems reason enough to me."

Neria's mirth stills suddenly, her face gone blank. "I know," her whisper is quiet, almost lost even in the silence of the Great Library. "That is reason enough for you." She lets the blissfully unaware Jowan lead her to the apprentice wing.

She leaves him at the door to his dorm with a smile and a pat on the arm, and makes her way to her own, shared with seven other apprentice girls. She quickly tidies up the mess left from bathing Sabbi, the Mabari pup one of the visiting Templar Knights had left in Tranquil care, sent out to run errands for the Grand Cleric to places that would not appreciate an exuberant pup. Sabbi is wonderfully clever at getting into places he shouldn't, and getting _her_ into places she shouldn't be. Owain is not jealous of his care, and Neria helps with the pup at every opportunity, including bath time. She had to admit, the mess was worth being rid of the stench of whatever he had rolled in that morning.

Jowan though. That is a different story. Her best friend nearly since the day she arrived, at least among the mages, he follows her into tight spots, but usually is trying to get her not to go in the first place. He feels she takes the good will of the Templars for granted, and while she does to an extent do just that, she knows them far better than he, simply for having taken the time to know them as people, not deadly décor.

She sighs to herself. Many of the mages perpetuate that themselves, hushed whispers about how this Templar is glaring, he must be looking to kill someone. Neria knew exactly why Ser Bran had been scowling that day. The supply shipment had been delayed by a storm, and the dining hall was out of sugar, and Ser Bran despised unsweetened coffee in the morning. So going without had given him a headache, and made him grouchy. Since that day, Neria had taken to pilfering a bit of the sweetener every so often, so if that occurred again, she would be able to keep the jittery Knight sweet. _No pun intended, yes_? She rolls her eyes at her own thoughts.

Not every mage in the Tower is scared spitless of the Templars, and not every Templar is hostile and overbearing. Some had been here for many, many years, and understood that this is simply the way of life for Mage and Templar both, so no point creating a hostile prison. Neria would far rather a home, with a family she loved, so that is what she created for herself.

Neria could only remember bare wisps of a home before the Tower. A father who loved her, and whom she worshipped, but she recalled missing him a lot. A mother who sang to her, but she could not recall the words, only a momentary whisper of a tune. The rest of her childish memory revolved around the gnawing hunger in her belly, the burning pain in her leg, and the metallic taste of lightening.

She fingers the scar on her leg before she slips into her nightshift. A reminder of where her talents lay, the reason she had torn lightening from a stormless sky, the reason she had come to the Tower. Surana had struggled to learn the gentler healing arts, and has some base skill, but her control of the elements is peerless. She far surpasses the other apprentices in the Primal abilities, though her stamina is not what it could be. Ah, with practice, she will be able to maintain longer, and juggle more spells. She hates using lyrium to boost her energy, but she finds that she can't power the larger area spells properly without it. There is much work yet to be done to train her mind.

She shakes her head, and forces her thoughts to more frivolous matters. This new Templar that she had run headlong into is certainly a work of the Maker's art. The mages were all soft and sluggish compared to the Templars, but even the other Templars she had glimpsed had lost that keen edge honed by living in the greater world. In time, the easy life of the Tower Templars dulled them all. They need not spar as hard, nor suffer without, as they might outside the Tower.

While the comment of gifting her virtue to this man had been a giddy, half hysterical joke, said mostly to stir Jowan, Neria is willing to admit to a touch of wistfulness. His hand had been warm in hers, calluses rough against the soft, soft skin of her own. His powerfully built body had been tautly muscled, and he moved with a grace that spoke of familiarity with heavy plate and unpredictable battle.

She laughs softly under her breath as she climbs into bed. She knows it is a silly desire, but she can't shake the image of his bare chest from her mind, nor his thickly muscled legs, glimpsed through gaps in his towel. He has not yet grown into himself completely, still lanky, lacking the bulk he will develop, but well defined. She wraps herself in her blanket and happily dreams of this new beautiful not-quite-boy-Templar.

* * *

Cullen falls into line with the other Templars to be given a new pouch of lyrium dust, marked with the Circle's insignia, a twined enchanter's staff and the down pointed sword that marks the Templars' armor. His stiff new clothing leaves much to be desired after years of wearing worn-in field gear, but at least he has room to move. His old clothes are tattered from too long on the road, and tight as he begins to grow into himself. He rolls his shoulders. Since fourteen, he's been chasing after Chantry business, a life of tracking and fighting, with little time to himself. For the last two days, he'd done nothing but settle in, and now it is time to get back to work.

"This will see you through the week. If you need to be away from the Tower for longer than that, we will provide you with what you need. We can't have our warriors dependant on the kindness of strangers, even if they are Chantry priests." The Quartermaster winks at the new Templars, and his smile is infectious. The general mood of the Tower seems to be content, as though most who live here feel it is home. Cullen smiles wryly. He had not expected to feel so welcomed, so at home himself, in the Circle Tower.

"Now gentlemen, to your duties. You four, stay here. Greagior wants to talk to you." The Quartermaster leaves the room, leaves them standing to wait. Cullen settles into the at-ease stance, settling back on his heels.

Ser Thian sidles up next to Cullen. "What do you think of the place? It's a far cry from what I'd been led to expect, thank the Maker."

Cullen grins and nods. "That it is. I was fully expecting to walk into hell, but this place isn't half bad. Maker's breath, but I'll be glad to not bathe in cold rivers anymore."

"And have you seen the women? Maker protect us, the robes-" He breaks off as Greagior enters, straightening into an attentive stance. They all follow, and the four Templars salute as the Knight Commander faces them.

"Now that you've had a chance to settle in, I'm going to introduce you to your charges. You were each sent here to oversee a specific mage who, for one reason or another, needs a more watchful eye than is typical. We've two with us just now, and we need constant vigilance, so you'll partner up, and split watch, twelve hour days. Two days a week, you'll be relieved of duty, but you'll need to be ready to react to a call up at a moment's notice. Your assigned mage will unfortunately have either the strength or the cunning to get around all the Templars currently stationed here." Greagior shrugs. "Sometimes, we just get one who needs special care, but these two are both too important to the Chantry priests to consider for Tranquility." The door behind him opens, and two girls are ushered through.

Cullen snorts in amusement. The skinny little flame haired elven girl who had tried to run him down is one of the special charges. The other is a strikingly beautiful human girl, with storm grey eyes and silver hair that curls around her shoulders, but Cullen can't pull his gaze off the little elf. Those bright eyes that had been brimming with mischief the other night are filled with apprehension now. She meets his eyes, and shyly ducks her head, a faint blush creeping across her cheeks. His smile is very small, the flush of color lights up her features almost as beautifully as the smile he had been dreaming about did. Even the pointed tips of her ears turn red.

"Patrik and Cullen, this is Neria Surana." The elven girl-mage steps closer with a nod. "She will be your charge until further notice. Thian and Selwyn, this is Solona Amell, who will be your charge, again, until further notice." The human girl comes forward, her movements bold, touches each of her new Templar guards on the arm.

"A pleasure to meet you, gentlemen. But I've studies to be about, so if you'll be so kind as to choose who has first watch?" Her voice is cordial but her eyes are cold, her disdain for the Templar soldiers apparent. Cullen's chin tilts in appraisal, certainly un-envious of his fellows who are to watch _that_ girl.

Cullen turns his focus back to the elf, who is still having trouble meeting his gaze. With a chuckle, Cullen turns to Ser Patrik. "If you don't mind, I'll take first shift. We can trade off at midnight and noon, so I'll be on a couple extra hours today. Does this suit?"

Patrik nods. "I'll meet you outside her room at midnight then. And my thanks." He grabs Cullen's forearm in farewell, and Cullen returns the gesture, then watches him walk out. The other two have left already, trailing after the human mage. Only Greagior and Neria are still in the room. Cullen turns to face his new charge, but Greagior catches his eye with a gesture, and leans close.

"Take care of her, Ser Cullen. She is very special to us all." With that, he leaves as well, leaves the two alone.

"Did the pup find you? I tried to send him some time early morning, but he insisted on sleeping somewhere warm, and I'll admit I was too tired to bother with much of a protest."

"Oh, yes." Subdued and quiet, so he has to strain to hear her response. "He came to find me for breakfast." She peers up at him, glances away, looks back. Maker, is she shy? She'd had no trouble before, once she'd gotten over the shock of catapulting into a half naked stranger.

"Yes, well. I'm sure you've much to do, so lead on, milady." He smirks at her, and she blushes even harder. She is mumbling something about the Maker and the Fade, and turns on her heel, waving him to follow. "I wouldn't mind a sparring session, to let us both get a grasp on what we're up against, when you've a spare hour or two."

Stopping abruptly, she turns to face him, though he nearly bumps into her, so she finds herself craning her neck to look up at him. She inhales deeply before stepping back with a nod.


	2. Training the Mage, Training the Templar

A/N - I had a distinct purpose in mind for partnering the Templars up with the two mages, and of course it was to do with their suitability/power capabilities to be Wardens. I've removed this purpose from the story in this format, but I can still justify to myself having the partnerships in place, just due to their magic potential.

-Before the Harrowing - Ages 16 & 20

* * *

"I can't seem to get the cadence quite right. And it takes too Maker blasted long!" Her frustration rings through the chamber, as Cullen stands, impassively watching her practice her new spells. "I can get the fire to start, that's the easy part. It's the wind storm I need to make this worthwhile!"

Cullen gestures for the book. "Let me see…this line structure, this is the one you're having trouble with?" She nods, eyes closed, as she tugs at her braids. He tests the words on his tongue, rolls them around in his mouth, and spits them out. "Here, try this. Imagine, just as you start this line, that you've a plum pit in your mouth. Shape your tongue around it to speak. Then expel the last words as you would that seed. Makes the words kind of hollow, but it lets you slur here…and here, with ease." Metal clad fingers tap against the page, drawing her eye to the appropriate words.

She gazes at him, with his lips quirked in concentration, and feels…something, tingle and tug below her belly. "Cullen," she smirks. "How would you pronounce this string of syllables right…here?" She moves in close, holds the book before them so she can point out the words in question. Cullen gently grabs her shoulder, guides her until she stands with her back to him, pressing into his chest. She shuffles down just a little, and he rests his chin on the top of her head, and holds her arms at the elbows, now fully supporting the weight of the book, even if she was still _technically _holding it. She swallows a giggle but allows herself a grin. So long as he didn't think about it, speak about it, his orbit around her is fluid and easy, stance adjusted toward her, eyes following her movements, body in closest proximity.

Still pressed back into his breastplate, Neria follows his instructions, spitting out the trigger words for the twister spell, followed directly by the fire spell. She feels his breath against her hair as he whispers along with her, and they watch as the firestorm blooms in the library.

"Amazing…" he murmurs. She feels his hands slide up her arms, wrap around her, and his voice is soft and awed. She can feel his lips move against the pointed tip of her ear as he speaks. "Absolutely flawless, little mageling."

* * *

"You can't talk to him anymore, Surana." Jowan glares at her, arms crossed. He stands over her as she sits at a table in the dining hall, feet kicked up on the chair next to her, book in hand. "Not like you do. He's a Templar. Did you know it is their job to kill us?" She quirks one brow at him, and he slumps, then lifts her feet to sit, repositioning them in his lap. "People are talking. Maker, this place is full of gossipy old women. You _know_ that."

She frowns, lays the book face down across her legs. "It matters little to me what people say about us, Jowan. The Maker knows, I'd have done more than earn the gossip if I could, but as you point out, he is a Templar. He wouldn't. Not while I'm a Mage, and how likely is _that _to change?"

"But Greagior will hear, and then they will make you Tranquil! Or kill you. Doesn't that bother you? And do you think he would be punished? At all?"

"Jowan, neither of us will be punished. We haven't done anything wrong. We won't do anything wrong." She reaches over and takes his hand. "You're my best friend. Don't you think if I were breaking the rules, I'd at least be asking you to help me hide it?" She smiles at him, quick and mischievous.

* * *

"Do you ever wonder why you've been assigned to me, Cullen? You and I have both heard the rumors make the rounds, so why do they keep us together?" She turns the page in the tome she is reading in preparation for her very first class in Death Magic. She grimaces as she tries to twist her tongue around the trigger word for drawing an opponent's life force into herself. Neria glances up at the steel fortress that houses her boy-Templar, and reaches out to rap her knuckles on his breastplate. "I'm going to need to practice this one on you, I think."

He chuckles, and traps her hand against his chest, wrapping his steel covered fingers around hers. "Of course you are, Neria." He smirks. "And I think that is why they keep us together. Because you'd likely accidentally kill anyone else who tried to spar with you."

She tugs ineffectually against his grip, pouting. "You say that like I'd be mean about it." The pout turns into a beaming smile when he refuses to release her. "I've never tortured the men Greagior assigned to watch me, you know. They just can't…take me down." They both make an effort to straighten their faces, all seriousness now. "If they can't handle me, how are they going to kill, say, a desire demon who has full use of my power?"

"They think you go easy on me, you know." He rolls his eyes at her. "Because you 'love' me so much." He stresses the quote in his words, and she sniggers, all the serious faces banished once more. "They truly have no idea what you can do…which I find disturbing, considering that I warn them, Greagior warns them, Maker, even Irving warns them!"

"It isn't that they don't know, Cullen." She drums her fingers against his chest, enjoying the metallic pings. "Not many men are willing to admit that they can be bested by a sixteen year old girl." The grin returns. "You're the only one who takes it well."

His laugh is full throated, and makes something in her lower belly tighten. "That's because you don't best me, my dear mageling. I'm sure I'd run just as scared if I lost more than I won." He absently removes his gauntlet from the hand that holds hers, and strokes his fingertips down her wrist. She thinks he is unaware he has done this, and would be quite embarrassed if she were to point it out. She might do so anyway, given his current ego, if it didn't feel so Maker-blasted…good.

"You? Run scared?" She scoffs. "I don't think anything scares you. You've stood before my biggest explosions, my most draining spells, and never flinched." She gasps out a laugh. "Remember the 'Lightening Gone Awry' incident? Or my bloody awful attempt at healing that poor cat?" The smirk returns. "You can null me at the height of my focus, you've nothing to be scared of."

His eyes tighten minutely, but enough for Neria to see their banter has just gone serious again. His fingers, now caressing almost to her elbow, tighten as well. "I am deathly afraid, Neria." His whisper is silky gravel against her skin. "Afraid that you'll…that I'll have to…"

She stands abruptly, letting the tome fall to the floor. She presses two fingers of her unfettered hand to Cullen's lips, stopping the words he is stumbling over. When he is no longer trying to speak, she traces her thumb softly against his bottom lip before pulling away. "But you will."

"Yes_."_

"Well, then" She smiles up at him, bare inches from his face, and Maker, he can't breath, and her voice is moonlight, shadowed and soft. "I think it was more a rhetorical question."

* * *

17 & 21

Cullen stares at the bookshelf, reaching out occasionally to run his bare fingers down a spine, the feel of the leather bindings a pleasure to his senses. He can smell the paper and ink in the Great Library, along with ash and ice from today's training sessions. The lingering feel of tiny tears in the Veil tug at him, and he smoothes them over unconsciously.

With a furtive glance to make sure no one is watching, he tugs 'The Rose of Orlais' off the shelf. Adding it to the small pile in his arms, he makes his way to the Librarian, showing her the stack. She raises her eyebrow when she sees the title he is trying to hide, and he shrugs one shoulder, blushing slightly.

The Librarian smirks and shrugs in return. "These two titles will be very useful in training with young Surana. The girl is learning very fast, isn't she?" The matronly woman cocks her head to the side, regarding Cullen with interest. "I've another one that you would perhaps be interested in, that will be…educational." With a wink, she slides another book onto the pile. 'Enredo Amoroso', an Antivian text. He smiles his thanks and gathers the books.

Today is his day of rest, and Cullen intends to spend much of his free time reading. The early morning is the best time for him to get his books unnoticed, other than by the Librarian herself, who is uninterested in teasing the Templar too badly over his reading material. Once the assistants start for the day, he loses that, so in and out in a hurry is the name of the game this morning.

Two days later, Cullen returns the books to the Librarian, who smiles widely at him as he flushes deeply. "Did you enjoy your readings, Ser Cullen?" She struggles to keep her giggles in, and he rolls his eyes at her.

"Merida, in the Maker's name, where did you imagine I would use such teachings?" he mutters. "I'm a sodding Templar, aren't I?"

The woman shrugs. "You'd be surprised how seldom that means anything here, when it comes to sex. Even love." She pats his shoulder.

* * *

18 & 22

"I am not sure we should be as close as we are, Neria." Cullen stands behind the mage as she once more sits in the library, his fingers toy with her ear tip as he frowns at his own words. On her lap is a book on Primal theory, open and currently being ignored. "I realize that we are pushing the boundaries of what the Chantry will overlook, and I wonder if it would not be better for us both to…end this."

Her shoulders cave forward as his words sink in. "You want to be reassigned?" She tips her face sideways to glance at him from the corner of her eye. Her voice is leaden. "I'm sure Greagior would arrange that for you." She flicks his hand from her ear, shifts forward to break physical contact with him. "Cullen, you know that I don't ever want to force you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I just…I thought that this, that we, didn't bother you."

"I'm not bothered by it. We have limits, and I am happy enough with that. What bothers me, I think, is that no one else seems bothered by it either, and we are not exactly… discreet in our affections." He crouches by her chair, armor clattering. He reaches up to lay his palm against her jaw. "Does it not strike you as odd that according to the teachings of the Chantry, Mage/Templar relations are not to happen, yet both Irving and Greagior see us together, see us interact, see this almost romance, and say nothing?" He runs his thumb over her bottom lip. "I spoke badly, Neria. I will never leave you. I need you, and I need to be by your side." He shifts closer, so close he can feel her breath against his lips. Her skin is flushed, and he can feel her tremble under his touch. His own breath is coming ragged. They reach now the limit imposed on them by his vows to the Chantry. He gently kisses her cheek, lingering against her skin before pulling away with a sigh.

She looks at him, those wide green eyes of hers staring into his soul. Her vulpine face shows her internal conflict, and she chews on her lip. "That was badly said, yes. Cullen, if you want something of me, than you need to tell me. I am very bad at guessing games." She frowns at him. "I will not have you unwilling. I will abide by your boundaries because I…because I must." Her stumble does not go unnoticed, and he wonders if what she has not said was the same thing he does not say. "I have wondered. I don't know who to seek the answer from, though. Irving looks at me, and I can see that he doesn't approve, but offers no words on the matter." She touches the back of his hand lightly, traces small patterns on his skin. "For all of creation, I can't delve too deeply into it, for fear someone will make us stop. I don't want to stop, Cullen. You are my strength, my light. I face the Fade knowing you will protect me, and I can conquer the world." She giggles suddenly. "Maker, what would the priests do to me if they heard me say that!"

Cullen leans back in, glad that she has forgiven so easily. _If only she knew that I would rip out my heart and hand it to her, if she asked it of me._ His reluctance to break this rule hurts, leaves them both aching in ways that are difficult to bear, but are worst in the lonely span of nights when he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around her slight body, to feel her soft bare skin slide against his own. The books that Meria keeps sliding into his hands only fuel his imagination of what it could be, if only his vows didn't stand in the way. They spoke of passion and need, love and desire. The whores he'd known spoke only of coin and release, and he longs to know what it was to make love to her. Because it could only ever be her.

* * *

He knows because he is always watching her, and she knows that he is there. Even something as intimately private as a late night rendezvous with her mage lover, his duty tells him to watch her. Perhaps not so avidly as he does, perhaps not burning inside his armor, his arousal hidden behind steel plates as Mari trails wet kisses up Neria's thigh. Perhaps this night he should turn his eyes away, watch only the Veil surrounding her. But he does not, and her gaze is steady, meeting his as her lips part, pale skin flushes. He does not turn from her as she twines her fingers through the human girl's hair, urging her eager mouth to move against slick flesh. He does not turn from her as Mari's skilled tongue leads her up in spirals and pulls her apart at the seams. She does not shut him out, though her lids flicker, she stares at him all the while, and Maker's mercy, he doesn't know if this is meant to be a torment or a reward, but he is on fire.

* * *

19 & 23

He focuses tightly on her, senses press against the veil, waiting for her to strike. He feels the ripples start, can nearly hear her in his head as she begins the command string, and he knows it is going to be one of the big ones. And…there, the veil tears, her touch so delicate it would be easy to miss, were he not so intent on it. He lets it go, knowing he can seal it still. "Come on, love," he mutters. "Give me something to work for!"

As if she hears him, he feels a rent open into the Fade, power whipping out and into the hands of the slyly grinning elven girl across the sparring field from him. Ducking behind the obstacles will not save his ass from this one, as she layers a firestorm with an electrical storm. He smiles fiercely. She might even have him beat, if he hadn't been picking up some new tricks of his own. He leaves the veil damaged, allows her to pull more and more power, but dispels the area directly around him. Bringing his will to bear, he pushes the magical effects from her spells aside, leaves a wake of dead air behind him. Her spell separates, leaves her with two massive storms to control. The glint in her eyes tells him she feels the strain of it. She is sweating, but the look on her face is feral, beautiful and deadly.

He finally stands before her, and flicks her nose, slamming shut her connection to the Fade, smoothing the tears and ripples, turning it to stone. She gasps at the shock of it, staggering. He concentrates, and her spells dies. "I win. Again."

Her lips twist into a frown, and she pants, grasping his arm to keep herself upright. "I'm so close to being able to maintain when you do that, I can feel it!"

He strokes her hair. "Maker, I hope not. I'm nearly at the end of my tether as it is, if you get much stronger, I'll have to resort to sneaky tactics to keep you in line!" He leans in and nips the tip of her ear. "I'd hate to have to be sneaky." he rumbles.

She shivers, then reaches up to tap her fingertips against his cheek. Her voice is silky midnight, a low murmur. "Can't be having sneaky, now, can we, Cullen?"

* * *

She is laying in bed crying when he comes to post, and it is a struggle to stand guard, to not go to her. Her sobs tear at him, but duty chides him to remain still. Eventually the hall quiets, as the mages and apprentices settle for the night. Come midnight, the only sounds are the occasional snores from half open doors, and Cullen can move unnoticed. He steps through the doorway and makes his way quickly to her bedside. Blankets and all, he gathers her in his arms as though she weights nothing, and carries her back out into the hall, back to his post. She glares up at him, but does not struggle, as wary as he of making noise, of attracting attention.

Her blanket is wrapped around her completely, the only thing showing is her chin and the tip of her nose. Cullen settles to the floor, and pulls his bundled girl-mage as comfortably into his lap as armor allows. He traces his finger along her chin, tilts her face up to look at him. "Tell me."

Her sobs break out anew. "You'll think I'm silly!"

"I think you're hurting, my dearest, and I cannot stand to see you cry. You know this." He pulls off his gauntlet and trails his bare fingers across her cheek, then strokes down the tender skin on the side of her neck, finally running back up to the tip of her ear. He hears her breath catch, so caresses up and down the sensitive shell until her tears stop again.

She eyes him sheepishly, then slowly tugs the blanket off her head. He inhales sharply. Her hair, luxuriously long and thick, shiny and silky, a cloak of flame that trailed her wherever she went, is gone. The ragged, wild mess that remains barely brushes her chin. Staring at him with those wide green eyes, biting back the tears, trying not to be ridiculous, she is the most adorable thing he has ever seen. He runs his fingers through the offending hair, smiling a little. "It suits you."

"It caught on fire when I tried to help Jowan with that fireball spell, the hard one? He missed, and I guess I'm lucky it was only my hair, and not my whole face." He presses his lips against her forehead, still stroking her ear, letting the silky, if short, strands of her hair twine around his fingers. "You don't hate it?"

He chuckles. "I don't hate it."


	3. Color Me Not Suprised, The Harrowing

A/N - I know there are some parts that seem like they might be addressing a plot. I promise this is not the case.

22 & 26

He holds her as she lays still, empty body slumped against his, soul in the Fade. His blade held firm in one hand, his arm clutches across her chest, gripping her shoulder, fingertips dig into her flesh. Can she feel his touch where she is? He thinks briefly that the pain of it can help guide her home. His senses lay against the Veil, feeling it thin, but intact. He can still taste the dust dissolving under his tongue, augmenting his daily lyrium dose, augmenting his focus. _Just in case_.

_Don't you dare give in. I'll never forgive you if you make me kill you._

They all stand watch, stand guard. Greagior towers over them, arms crossed, glowering down at him. His glare encompasses them both, but Cullen refuses to flinch. For all of Greagior's disapproval over the years since he has been assigned as one of Neria's Templars, Cullen has always gotten a sense of sadness, of reluctance from him as well. Tonight, in the Harrowing Chamber, that sadness seems intensified, and Irving seems, while optimistic about her chance of survival, quietly resigned.

Cullen is frightened. The elven girl-mage in his arms is girl no longer, but woman, even by the distorted standards of the Tower. She leaves behind her childhood years after a normal, non-mage girl would do, the last vestiges of her innocence given over the demons who lurk behind the Veil in the Harrowing Chamber. If - _when_ - she wakes, she will be apprentice no longer, but Mage.

The Knight-Commander's scowl grates at him, but Cullen holds his dagger steady, a breath's space from his girl-Mage's tender throat. He will do his duty to Neria, to the Chantry, to the Maker, and destroy her if he has to, but he will not let what _might _happen sway his hand, take her away from him.

She _knows _she is powerful, and that her power draws the Fade demons like a loadstone. She has no desire to be a meat-puppet for something that wants a home this side of the Veil. She has acknowledged that most of the mages fail to think it through properly, and Cullen has acknowledged that many of the Templars hate blindly. All had been raised in this manner, to resent the other as an evil whose necessity is barely apparent.

Long before he expects, Neria gives a slight twitch, the soft sigh that says she is starting to rise from slumber. He knows she doesn't wake up swiftly, has no knee-jerk reflexes that would force his blade into her skin, so he holds steady. Greagior's eyebrow might have risen, but Cullen focuses solely on the girl-Mage in his arms. All signs normal, he wants to say, but that might give away his fascination with watching her sleep. It is hardly _his_ fault the door gets left open, nor that her bunk is in direct line of sight from his post. Sometimes she smirks in her sleep. Not that he believes she is really asleep on those nights.

Her green eyes open lazily, and she blinked blankly up at him. Gazes at him a moment. Blinks again. Smiles softly, and turns her face into his plate-covered chest. He wishes, not for the first time tonight, that he isn't required to wear armor for this. But it _is _superior protection from Abominations, should the need arise. Still, he'd trade it for the feel of her cheek pressed to his chest without it. She snuggles back into his embrace, with a soft smile, and a murmur of "home" that shoots through him in ways that make him suddenly _very _glad he is wearing plate armor.

"Take her to bed, Cullen. She has passed her Harrowing very quickly indeed." Greagior takes his blade as Cullen rocks back onto his heels, then pushes upright, careful to not jar the resting mage. Her smile admits she is not asleep; at least, it says so to him. It is a smile that could be worn during pleasant dreams. But not _her _smile for pleasant dreams.

Once Cullen reaches the hall, she slits her eyes open, looking up at his face. He laughs down at her, laying in his arms like a damsel in distress, too distressed to walk, it seems. "One of the many perks of being a newly Harrowed mage, my dear lady. Dorm room delivery service!"

She snorts, very unladylike. "You just wanted a chance to get into _my_ bedroom!" Cullen rolls his eyes, fighting back the flush he could feel rising up the back of his neck. Neria notices. Of course she notices. She wriggles in his arms, half climbing up his armor until her lips are _very _close to his ear. "I had to pass, so I could have a chance to get you there…" Sultry dusk in her voice. And then she giggles. "Oh, Maker, Cullen, I'm sorry. That was…bold of me." She relaxes back into his arms, kicking her feet lightly as they, admittedly more slowly than is necessary, make their way round and round, from top to bottom of the Tower. On the rare occasion they pass someone, Neria lays still and passive, asleep to all eyes. Otherwise, she wiggles and squirms, doing her best to upset Cullen's balance. Their laughter is perhaps a bit louder than it should be, but they go unnoticed.

"Cullen!" Bran calls out from his post as they entered the great library. He waves him over, burden and all. "She out?" he asks, gesturing at Neria. At Cullen's nod, he grins. "Obviously she passed, given she's not dead. Any excitement? Close calls? Didn't take very long, hey?"

Cullen's response is hushed. "She did fine, nothing to report, and no, she isn't dead." Knowing she is listening, he adds "Had to have been the cleanest I've seen. She did well."

Bran nods. "You off duty after delivery then?"

"Mmhmm. I think food, then bed. You on til morning?"

"Yep." Bran grins and nods, happy to have someone to talk to this late at night. The Tower could get very quiet in the deep of night.

Cullen shifts Neria in his arms, nodding down at her, then tipping his chin toward the Apprentice dorms. "Gonna get her to bed, then follow suit. I'll see you in the training yard tomorrow." Walking away, he jostles her slightly. Getting no reaction, he looks carefully, and realizes that she actually is asleep.

Cullen lays his girl-Mage into her bed in the Apprentice quarters. He tugs the blanket over her, tucks it around her shoulders, stealing a glancing brush against her jaw as he does so. Her lips curve, and she nuzzles against his hand. His flesh burns as her lips move against his palm in the barest of kisses. His soul burns as her barest of breaths sighs his name.

He kneels on the ground beside her, not moving his hand from warm skin. His beautiful, brilliant girl-Mage snuggles closer to his touch in her sleep, and he is lost in wonder.

Her Harrowing is over, and she is safe. For now.


	4. Magi Interrupted, The Day The Tower Stoo

A/N - So...this is the chapter that earns the M rating.

Magi Interrupted, The Day The Tower Stood Still

* * *

"Would you have struck me down?" The question slips out unbidden, and Neria wishes she could take it back, especially when her beautiful boy-Templar begins to frown.

"It would have broken my heart, dearest, but you know that I would have." His duty, but Neria understands his duty, perhaps better than he does.

Her wide smile at his response relaxes him. "Thank you, Cullen." At her side, her hand twitches, fingers turn out. Their proximity hides this from prying eyes, not that the hall isn't empty just now. She wants no witnesses to her gratitude. His gloved hand reaches out in response, and their fingertips touch briefly.

"You are welcome, Neria." His answering smile is enough. He understands his duty, and is grateful that she does.

* * *

Something has happened, stirring the Tower like a hornets nest kicked by a careless boy. Whispers of Blood Magic run rife. Rites of Tranquility, betrayal, broken rules or broken friendship, the Chantry humiliated, a mage to be hunted down.

She slips unseen into his chamber, "I'm being sent away," her voice is mid-day desert, empty and barren, scorched. "I will be leaving with Duncan when he goes," A hot sigh, "a Gray Warden. To combat the Blight." Her laughter verges on hysterical. "He threatened to Conscript me if Greagior had not agreed. They didn't even ask _me_."

Cullen swallows hard, choking back a denial. His punishment, then, for needing her, is to lose her.

Her green eyes spark suddenly, and her palm comes up to cup his face. "Duncan says I am a Gray Warden now. Irving says I am no longer a Circle Mage." Her eyes drop, but her hand remains, a shy invitation that Cullen has no difficulty understanding.

Then it strikes him, a slim justification but, considering, perhaps all they need. She is no longer his charge, no longer Mage first, everything else after. Now she is Warden. Yes, still a vow broken, but this, at least, is one often broken, and received only a frown and a sigh as punishment.

His fist tangles in her hair, as he pulls her against him, banishing the space between them. Her flame tresses brush his skin, as her lips claim the flushed shell of his ear. "Mine." Her whisper demands. He _belongs_ to her.

Her own hands go to his waist, pulls herself even tighter to him as his groan shivers against the fragile line of her throat. "Yours," he affirms, breath hot against her pulse. His grip tightens on the back of her head, tilting her face up to him as he straightens to tower over her. "Always yours." Maker, duty, Chantry, all slip away into nothing as Cullen finally, finally touches his parted lips to hers, breathing in as she exhales.

Control is tenuous, but the need in her darkened eyes screams of mutual desperation. He slowly, painfully slowly _oh Maker, let me not hurt her!_ consumes her mouth, his tongue slides hot and supple between her lips, and she opens for him. Heat and wet, her mouth tastes of green apples and winter night.

Her hands come up to grip the back of his neck, and she pulls his head down further, kissing deeper, harder, more. Her breathing is ragged, gasping between his lips, fighting to control herself, but he can feel it slipping out of her grasp. His fist jerks tighter still, crushing her mouth to his, and her moan is his undoing. Suddenly the need to feel more of her skin is overwhelming. His armor is unbearably hot, and he can't get _close_ enough in it.

His hands release her, but he keeps her top lip captive between his teeth, growling softly as she tries to pull away. He sheds his armor quickly, fingers unconsciously nimble. As her hands make motion toward the throat clasp of her robe, he growls louder. She freezes, then flicks her tongue against his lip, her tiny smirk so knowing.

His tunic torn and flung aside, his hands seek the clasp he'd warned her off of. A quick flick, and her robe falls open, exposing her at last to his blasphemous eyes. Finally he releases her mouth, and steps back to _see _her.

"Maker preserve me…" Her body is awash in the moonlight spilling through the window, and Cullen can't breath, can't think. Refuses to think. His skin is on fire, needing her, and the hunger in her eyes draws him in. His fingers find hers again, clasping tight before running his palms up her arms. He skims his hands down her flanks, so warm within the sudden shocking chill of the Tower.

Her hands find the bare skin of his chest, and her mouth follows, running her lips over a jagged scar that bites from ribs to shoulder. She glances up to meet his eyes, asking, begging. Something burns in his throat, duty lodges sideways in his lungs, but he is _hers, _is he not? Before the Maker, before the Chantry, before his Templar vows, he belongs to her, and no forced oath could supersede her possession of him. He cannot let her walk away not knowing that, deep in the marrow of her bones. She might not be his, but, "Yours, Neria." A ragged whisper, defeated, exultant. "Always and forever."

He lays her down on the bed. He worships her with his hands, with his mouth, and when she is ready, slick with sweat, submerged in desire, he pushes into her, fights against the feeling of her to find his control. _This, perhaps, is not what Templar discipline is meant for_. But that doesn't matter now. Her body lay quivering beneath his hands, pleasure and pain, as he finds himself blocked. He needs to touch her, so he lets his hands trace her curves, stroke her skin, find the natural path to the wet heat between her thighs, Maker, she feels, smells, tastes like sin. He touches her, strokes her, and as her breath stutters, her body clenches, he lets instinct ride him, and breaks her open beneath him. Her power floods through him, grasping onto his own, bolstering, adding, quickening, and in this moment, _their _power becomes potential. He can feel it alive in his veins, seeking.

A sharp hiss, but her hips arch against him, demanding him, and she washes over him, blood and magic, warm and wanting. He gives. With no grip on reality, no grip on control, letting her gasps of pain and need guide him, he moves blood-slick into her, over her, through her. He can't breathe, so he puts his lips to hers, barely moving, and steals her jagged pants, swallows her tiny whimpers, devours her cry as she shatters once more. The feeling of her tightening around him, liquid and magic, tightening inside him, drives him far beyond the edge, and everything falls away, save the singular moment/hour/lifetime of blinding release.

Then she is gone, stolen away from him by a savior -_thief- _of a Gray Warden.

She stares into the fire, ignoring the movements and muttering of the other camp occupant. She reaches out tenderly, and light wisps of the flames respond, curling and flaring at her whim. She whispers silently into the Fade, and the playful sparks leap to her hand, dancing above her upturned palm.

She aches, but there is no regretting the cause. Duncan makes no move to disturb her silence, asks nothing of her, save to walk when it is time. In the quiet, she longs for him. His ever constant presence is a memory to haunt her with absence.

She will return, one day. She is no longer Mage, but Grey Warden mage, and she will return, to claim her own.


	5. Accepting Alistair, the Meeting

**Accepting Alistair - The Meeting and the Blight**

Ostagar is overwhelming for a young mage who hasn't been out of the Tower since she was six years old. The scent of the Wilds is beyond unfamiliar, dank and heavy, not the dusty stone and parchment she is used to. The noisy bustle of soldiers preparing for battle, the barks and growls, whimpers and snarls of war dogs batters her ears, as she hurries through the bewildering camp, intent on finding the Warden Alistair as Duncan had directed. She ducks her head and scurries past Wynne when she sees her, too torn yet over her actions at the Tower that have landed her in the Warden order to want to try to explain, knowing the motherly woman would get it out of her with ease.

She cringes at the memory of Jowan's face, outrage and heartbreaking pain, then bleak despair as he cast his bloody spell. Lily's refusal of him was unexpected and wrenching, yes, but the fool boy should have _known_ she would not stand by a blood mage.

But even this thought, painful though it is, is easier to dwell on than - well, than _him_. She feels a wild joy in knowing that she had given him a part of herself, that they have fallen from grace _together_, drowned in blood and magic. Her mind skitters away, if she dwells, she cannot breathe…

Shaking off thoughts of loss and regret, Neria squares her shoulders, and looks at the world she had stepped into. Intrigued by the idea of meeting a fully grown Mabari, she makes her way toward the kennels.

* * *

The first thing she notices about Alistair is the familiar throb of power coiled in his limbs. Thank the Maker, this Warden is a Templar. Instantly the tension in her eases a bit. She cocks her head, reaching out to taste his power, gauges the strength of his ability. He is not Cullen, but he will do. He would maybe be able to stall her long enough to put a blade through her heart, if it should become a necessity. And maybe was all she has, without _him_.

"I don't suppose you happen to be another Mage?" She glances down at herself, at the colorful robes she wears that are meant to be a dead giveaway. She looks back up at the man who had successfully aggravated the Circle mage simply by delivering a message. She sighs. This is going to be a long day. "Um. Yes, actually."

* * *

She feels useless in the Wilds, cowering skittishly from the wind, yelping and dodging behind Jory when the wolves attack. She whimpers in fear and revulsion at the first sight of darkspawn. Her focus is shot, and it is all she can do to heal the gaping wounds of the warriors who keep the hideous creatures away from her. The world in which she is competent is gone, locked away in a tower that she can no longer call home, with people she is certain she can no longer call family.

Just outside the ruined tower, she takes a hit, an electric blast punches into her body, knocks her on her tail, the blunder compounded when she hits her head hard on the ground. When she wakes, she is unable to move. She tries to turn her head and mashes her face painfully against something hard and warm. She groans, and her bindings loosen. Fingers brush her hair from her eyes, tucking it behind her ear, and she is unsure if the caress is accidental or deliberate. "Cullen?" Her eyes open to see the very up close pale blur of a linen shirt.

Concerned eyes meet hers when she turns her head back. "No. It's Alistair. You hit your head pretty hard, Neria. You've been unconscious for an hour now." His fingers are probing the back of her head now, gently, but it still throbs painfully. She winces, and he pulls away.

She sits on the hard ground as Alistair cleans the wound with a wet cloth. It bled a lot, but did not cracked her skull as they had feared. Once he is done, she casts a spell to aid the healing, and is that reluctance she senses when he slowly pulls his hands from her, once more trailing fingers down the edge of her ear?

"We'll just grab the treaties now, and head back. The daylight is burning away."

* * *

Once recruited, a Grey Warden's past is swept away, all sins forgiven, all titles renounced. All ties, be they kinship or friendship, love or hate, are set aside, in order to do whatever is necessary to defeat the darkspawn. Cut adrift from her home and family, torn away from her Templar, Neria finds that she is not yet a part of the Wardens, lacking the final ritual, the Joining. For a brief time, she revels in being free, tied to none. The savage glee that pulses in her with every beat of her heart nearly bursts from her skin when Morrigan teaches her how to kill with her spells. The Tower only ever taught her how to practice, to spar against her Templar. How to lose.

* * *

Alistair has been forced to revise his opinion of Neria several times over the day. Ok, maybe she didn't handle her first taste of combat well, but by the end of the little quest, she had shown an amazing improvement, which he thinks might have to do with the whispered conversation between the little elf mage and the human Witch of the Wilds on the trek back from fetching the treaties. The few groups of darkspawn they encountered, Morrigan had gestured them all to wait, and pushed Neria forward to cast first. She learned quickly the lessons the Witch was trying to teach, throwing a wave of water forward over the creatures, then flash freezing them. The warriors' blades made very short work of them after that, leaving nothing but melting chunks of shattered flesh behind.

* * *

Concussion waves rock the bridge as the boulders crash into it. Neria stumbles, the motion underfoot too unfamiliar for her to remain upright. She ends up sprawled on the stone. Alistair catches her up, slings her light elven body over his shoulder as he runs. Twice the impacts brings him to one knee, but he pushes upright and onward as she watches the devastation behind them grow.

She fully understands Duncan's reasoning for keeping her out of the battle, but to hold Alistair back as her protector, when he so obviously wanted to be a part of it? She thinks this is a bit overprotective, that she can light a simple fire on her own. Hell, she can light a complex one, or simply send a beacon fire up from here, if that is really what they want. She wonders if anyone else had seen the irony of the Reverend Mother refusing Uldred's help, but so unquestioningly accepting hers.

Fighting their way up the twisting tower, Neria regains her bearings, and her elemental magics are devastating to the darkspawn. Her confidence in herself begins to reassert itself, and she feels a surge of triumph twist her lips into a smirk. The frozen ogre shatters under the onslaught of Alistair's sword, and her laughter rings wildly across the hollow chamber. She glances at the almost-Templar, and he is watching her with a slight smile. Grinning at him, she throws a handful of fire at the beacon, completing their task.

* * *

The Witch of the Wilds gives no sympathy to the almost-Templar. Her mocking is met with silence, and Neria opens her arms to comfort him. He clings to her, his only surviving Warden kin, his last blood connection, he cradles her as if by doing so he can atone for those he lost, protect her from becoming one of his ghosts, and she lets him. Plans begin to form, and she speaks to Flemeth from the shelter of Alistair's arms. She can't bring herself to deny him any comfort she has to offer, and if she is honest, the familiar power housed in his body comforts her as well.

They come to realize that there is a monumental task before them. To gather allies into armies, to defeat a blight, just the two of them. Ideas fly between mages, the old witch and the young Warden, and suddenly, Neria is thanking Flemeth for her help, and they are gathering their gear and themselves, and adding a disgruntled Morrigan to their desperate group.

* * *

Morrigan leads them from the Kocari Wilds, and Neria is overjoyed when the Mabari hound she had helped to save tracks them down, joining himself to their quest. In the night, bedded down in thickets, webs strung as protection, wards set, they all sleep as best they can, and Alistair has still not released her from his need, wrapping around her as the nightmares turn them both inside out, of Archdemons and of betrayal. She wakes whimpering, and his whispers and hands soothe her, drain the anxiety from her, until she drifts back into sleep, his arms curled tighter around her.

She feels like a stuffed doll for a traumatized child, a security for a boy who has had everything taken from him, and she realizes that she is exactly that. In turn, she clings to him, uses him for the only familiarity she can find in a world she doesn't know how to live in. They grow close quickly, between post dream conversations and the easy comfort that allows her to sleep surrounded by his warmth.

She subconsciously pulls her chameleon cloak about her, extends familiar behavior to her Gray Warden life, survival tricks learned in the Tower serving now to twist both Warden and Witch to her.


	6. The Dalish Montage

A/N - This is brief. Snippets of ideas that I wanted to write, but I'm not terribly interested in re-writing the Blight. Most bits not involving Cullen will be much like this.

* * *

She used to dream of living among the wild elves, a child of the nomadic Dalish, rather than a ward of the Circle of Magi. She has not wished for that in a long time, and now she is glad of that. Had she been born Dalish, she would have been accepted, loved. As an outsider, she is mistrusted. Her ears mean nothing to them, she is simply reminded that she is despised by all.

* * *

The forest is far from friendly, but there are benefits to being there. She adores the Grand Oak, an instant friend, despite being a Fade spirit. She smiles serenely as her magic devastates the mad hermit, perhaps it would be regrettable, had he not tried to force her into killing the tree sprite. Had he not summoned demons of his own. She sneers at him within her own head. She is not so weak as he.

* * *

"Teach me." A shattered glass vial, a mage freed from his ancient leash, the phylactery broken and smeared on the stone of the ruined city. The knowledge spirals through her, fills her heart and lungs, teaches her muscles how to move, how to cast, how to stand. She blinks, and her mind knows, but her body doesn't. "Teach me, Alistair."

He stares at her, mouth open, as the silver sheen starts to bleed from her, plunging them back into darkness. He isn't sure if he wants more to turn and run from her, or lean in to taste the magic on her skin. She looks like a forest spirit, a fox come to captivate and capture him, bind him up willing and hand him to the wolves.

* * *

"Oh Maker, you have got to be kidding me." Zathrian kneels before them, angry and broken. Maker, but she understands the pain of losing everything that matters, but his need for revenge will burn the world down around them, and she can't allow that. "End it, Keeper." Her face is hard, and Alistair wonders just when the awestruck little mage became a ruthless killer. Oh, wait. Sometime after Ostagar, being hunted by Loghain's men. That's right. "End it, or I will end it for you."

* * *

They dance together under the full moon, subtle flash of metal blades, to the harsh song of steel on steel, their ragged breathing and fluid footsteps. Every night since the elven ruins, they slip away into the forest, and he teaches her body the steps to their dance. Sometimes the wounds are bad, and she must use what little healing skill she has to patch herself up. She can't seem to get a hit on him. She will learn. They will continue until she does.


	7. Mage Reconnected, Return to Hell

A/N - I have this thing about the blue glowy eyes from the shorts...so, I used that imagery. Also? Not so good at the angry bitter Cullen. Apologies.

**Mage Reconnected - Return to the Tower, Return to Hell**

She is reeling when they enter the Tower, having browbeat Carroll into bringing them across the lake. It may just have been easier to swim from Redcliffe, damn it! Greagior pulls her into an embrace, murmuring into her hair how very happy he is to see her alive, that they had heard all the Grey Wardens had perished with the King. The Tower had grieved the night word came of the fall of Ostagar, the fall of the Wardens. But the Tower is bleeding now.

She can feel the twisted power riddling the building around her. There is corruption here, and death. She can almost smell the dark corners of the Fade, brought out in open view. She feels the demons as though they were darkspawn, linked by the taint in her blood, but by the taint of magic.

She will fix it, she tells him, save all who are left to be saved.

* * *

Neria pushes the heavy door open, trying and failing to wipe the spatters of blood and gore from her robe. She huffs loudly in frustration as she flicks a glob of…something from the back of her hand. At Alistair's amused glance, she growls, and flicks the next glob at _him._ He snickers as it spatters against his already coated breastplate, and she rolls her eyes. Wynne scowls as she watches them, and Neria can see she is itching to take them to task for horsing around.

If she lets it, it will tear her apart. She can only keep moving by making it unreal.

A shimmer of blue catches her attention as she rounds the open door, standing out starkly against the grey stone that is crusted in red and black tainted fleshy bulges. She cocks her head as she tries to puzzle what new twist this is. She wipes the bloody slop from her eyes and refocuses.

Her breath catches in her throat, is torn loose in a broken cry. Neria darts to the shimmer, and crashes into it. She slides down the barrier, palms pressing against it, trying to reach out to the kneeling man inside. "Cullen…" her whisper cracks, choked and breathless.

"This trick again?" His face is tight and worn, and Neria thinks he hadn't slept since the Tower debacle had started. She whimpers to hear his voice hoarsened, and her fingers press harder into the wall that isn't, trying to touch him. Even as his words deny her reality, his hand begins to rise; his own fingertips meet hers against the barrier. "Please, if anything about you is still human, kill me now. I am weary of these games…"

She throws a desperate glance at Wynne, who shakes her head. "I've never seen a prison like this before." Her look is pity. "The poor boy is exhausted."

Liliana speaks softly. "He has been denied both food and water." She frees her water skin from her belt, moving forward. "Here, I have-"

"Do NOT touch me!" His body flinches away as Liliana approaches, but his fingertips remain. Neria thinks that he hasn't realized it, or he would have pulled away from their not quite touch.

"…the one thing I always wanted…" His hollow eyes lift slowly to meet hers, his whisper reaches only her ears. "You come to me each night," he hisses out through clenched teeth, desolation swimming in his gaze. "I know it isn't you, but it seems so real. "

Her boy-Templar stares out at her from this burning man's visage, this man whose soul has been set alight within him, and nearly everything he cares about is rotting around him.

"Please Cullen, I'm here now." She begs his haunted eyes to believe her, to trust her.

"Indeed you are, my love. My weakness." His laugh a taunt. "My sin. The Maker knows my sin, and I pray that he forgives me." Cullen's words slide through her, a blow, a slowly weeping wound. Neria jerks back onto her heels. She covers the movement by flowing onto her feet, no longer kneeling in supplication before the shattered Templar.

"Why does it cause you so much pain, to love me?" She nearly spits, blinking desperately to deny the tears she can feel coming to betray her. Jowan's lies, Duncan's death, darkspawn hounding her dreams, none of this had broken her. This burning man, who already stands inside her defenses, was now intent on tearing her down from the inside, and she knows she cannot fight him.

"You are a mage, and I a Templar. I am to oppose everything that you are!" His gravel voice scraping her skin raw, but she watches his eyes, and beneath the terrified darkness, she sees. In seeing, her heart explodes. His love is huge and raw, and has been wounded by the demons' tricks, visions dancing in his head, desires that were his, paired with fade realities that were not.

She drops back to her knees before him. She rests her forehead against the near invisible wall, and sighs as the tainted tears begin to flow.

Ice and sharp edges, her words grind out "I cannot do this with you now, my Templar. Let me see what I can save, if anything. Let us say nothing that cannot be taken back."

* * *

The demon that was Uldred taunts her, threatens her, but Alistair is by her side, and he will keep her safe, and even if he cannot, Cullen is…trapped. He can't help her. Won't help her. Her anger fuels her spells, and Wynne and Alistair both gape at her as she brings the elements out to play, decimating the Abominations, toying with the demon. She dances dangerously close to losing control, but the hate in her will out, and she uses it to shred the demon slowly. The screams now come from it's corrupted throat, the remaining mages held back and safe by Wynne's use of the Litany.

Even after Uldred falls, she feeds the spells. The triple storm fills the Harrowing Chamber. Alistair stands next to her, until she motions him away, telling them through clenched teeth to help Irving down the Tower, that she will catch up. Unsure glances fly among the group, but Irving agrees with her, and uses his old man state to chivvy them from the room. She lets the ice and lightning die, but funnels the power into the firestorm, trying to burn clean the chamber, burn clean her mind. She still sees everything tinged in red, and she feels the taint in her blood react, a rising need to destroy.

His attempt to dispel her storm is gentle, a mere tugging at her magic, his hand a mere ghost of a touch against her ear tip. Has her power grown so much, then, that he asks her to obey, or is he so exhusted that he has no choice? She holds her breath, not sure if she is waiting for an onslaught of accusations or affection, but neither is forthcoming.

He watches her, shoulders slumped in exhaustion, but he finds he can't stand for long, he is swaying, so close to done in that he may as well be. He is grateful that this last time, she was her, not the demon come back for another round. With each rejected dream, each vision that failed to break him, it learned a little more of him, and sooner rather than later, would have found the key to him. When he felt _her _power rising beneath him, he was certain that it had.


	8. Of Brick Walls and Mages' Heads

**Of Brick Walls and Mages' Heads - How Not to Run Away Properly**

"Why are you here?" Abrupt and angry, he glares at her. She met his eyes calmly, the lyrium blue glaze make it hard to read her. He misses the green they used to be, now lost to the blaze of the taint in her blood. "What would you have of me, Warden?"

She reaches out for his hand, but he flinches back, pulling away from her touch. Her lips twitch down, but she gives him no further sign of her displeasure. "Not Warden tonight, Ser Cullen. Not Warden, nor Mage." Unfathomable, those strange blue fire eyes. "I am here as the girl you once loved, Cullen. The girl I hope you still love." Her sigh is despair, the corners of her mouth turned down, showing the inner battle that she has lost. "I am here because I am selfish."

* * *

He'd carried her to the boat from the Tower steps, cradled her on the ride over, and carried her still until they stopped to make camp.

She had fallen, and could not bring herself to move. Her friends saw it as reaction, to the broken Circle, friends and family betrayed, slaughtered, by friends and family. She weeps for those she couldn't save, and for those she did. She weeps for the choices she has been forced to make, the lives she has destroyed, for the destruction of her own. She grieves for the bodies left in her wake, once lives so full of promise, of hope, now shattered and steeped in blood. And when she thinks she has nothing left in her to give to grief, Alistair mentions 'that poor caged Templar bastard', and she dies.

All the while, Alistair carries her, further each step from the Tower, from her home, from her heart. Fearless Leader? Not today. Not tomorrow. They camp for three days, and she barely leaves her tent. Food is ignored until Liliana brings it to her, then stays to watch her eat.

Finally, Alistair crawls into the tent with her, sits cross-legged beside her bedroll, and watches her for a moment, curled in her blankets, shaking and sobbing. Finally, he sighs. "You know I'm terribly awkward with talking, unless it involves flying dogs and cheese." She stiffens, but nods. "Well, I don't have any cheese handy, and I haven't seen the dogs since they sold me to the Chantry, so I'll just have to blurt this out, and hopefully not make too much of an ass out of myself." He draws a deep breath, begins to speak, but Neria sits up suddenly.

"I don't want your words, Alistair." He looks a bit taken aback, with a hint of hurt showing around the edge. "I just need…you." Voice rough and tired, eyes dull, face blotched and red, she crawls into his lap, wraps his arms around her, and pushes her face against his linen covered chest. "I'm very glad you're not wearing armor today." she mumbles. And unless she was mistaken, this boisterous man, full of laughter and pain of his own, gives a happy sigh as she curls against him, and begins to stroke her hair. "I'll laugh at your cheese jokes tomorrow."

* * *

Alistair is startled, to put it mildly, when Neria curls up in his lap and clings to him. He's been working up a whole case of indignant pouting, but she knocks the stuffing right out of him with that move. All he can do is tighten his arms around her slender form (although Zevran may have the right of that magical bosom thing yet, but he ignores that, because otherwise, bad, _bad_ things could happen), and pets her, playing with her hair, murmuring soothing nothings, rocking her when a particularly nasty bout of sobbing happens. Oh, and let us not forget the handkerchief supply duties. For three days, he gladly stays, telling stories of growing up in Redcliffe, and then in the Chantry, what it was like to be a Warden before Ostagar (he cries a little himself, sometimes, and then it is her turn to cuddle him. Which was easy enough to do, since she is _in his lap!_) listens to stories of growing up in the Tower, apprentice pranks and misdeeds, tales both fun and sad, as she recounts Jowan's blood mage status, his betrayal, her betrayal, and the near Conscription that occurred that night.

There are gaps a mile wide. As he had pointed out once, the Chantry did not have stupid Templars, even ex-almost Templars. He could figure out that those gaps have everything to do with 'that poor caged Templar bastard', as he'd so thoughtfully put it leaving the Tower. But he figures he's started to make amends for that foot-in-mouth incident, and since Neria is so prone to forgiving his social ineptitude, he is probably in the clear. And three days of having the slowly heart-healing mage in his lap?

Priceless.


	9. Templar Tantrums, Relearning to Live

Templar Tantrums - Relearning to Live

* * *

She'd never left without saying goodbye. Until today. His head is imploding with desperate conflict as he watches her step over the threshold without a backward glance. The need to reach out to her, to touch her, has never been stronger, but his arms are weighted with lead, with despair, grief for his fallen brothers, for his fallen innocence. The sandy blonde man with lyrium glazed, blue burning eyes, the same fire that flickers now in hers, places his hand on _mine! _her lower back, guides her as she stumbles. Even he is tense, tired and saddened by the disaster they leave behind them. This girl-Grey Warden, a strange reflection whose eyes he does not recognize, but knows all the same, covers her mouth to try to hide the sobbing, and Cullen cannot raise his arms to draw her in, pull her close, stroke her until her tears dry.

Greagior's hand pats stiffly on Cullen's shoulder. A sideways glance reveals more understanding than Cullen would ever have imagined from his Knight Commander. "Go get cleaned up."

The Quartermaster takes Cullen's arm, tugging him to the makeshift base the Templars had used while the Tower burned. "We'll see if we can find a place to rest, hey?"

Cullen nods dully, the lead still heavy on his limbs, but begins to move anyway. Stripping off his armor, he goes to find clean water. He wonders if there is a way to scrub clean his soul.

* * *

Days later, the task of hauling bodies is finished, and only the scrubbing remained. Cullen has begged off, and finds his way to the training rooms. Without armor, his body feels…light, as he moves through the forms, swings his blade at the dummy, finds a semblance of peace in movement. He hasn't put his armor back on, since _she_ left. He can't bear the weight of it, the notion that it makes him what he is. A Templar. A Mage killer. A weapon for the Chantry, with none of the mercy he'd seen in the Harrowing chamber. The vitriol that had flooded his words while he was caged at the hands of the blood mages has seeped from his mind, leaving a calmer contemplation.

The hole her tears had torn in his heart is still raw, weeping and unhealed. He is trying, Maker knows he is trying, to balance what _he_ is with what _they _are, but can't seem to find the key. Muscles unused in weeks _days, years?_ burn under the harsh use he puts them to now. Sweat drips from him, and every move, every drop is one tiny bit of anger released, one small part of his anguish mastered. Hours later, he is once more in control of the rage inside him. Barely.

* * *

He slowly comes out of the fog, eventually stops pushing away everything, afraid to accept it as real, because it hadn't been, for so long. If dreams of temptation won't break him, perhaps dreams of normalcy will? He is so tired of the tricks, the visions of her laid out before him, underneath him, each one designed to make him accept the dream as reality, give in, be conquered, and have everything he has ever wanted. Lives lived in flashes of contentment, pleasure, bliss, heaven. They learned quickly that the dreams without her didn't move him at all. But after the first vision of her, rejected because it didn't smell like her, they pounded at him relentlessly. But even if they got her perfect now, exactly the way he remembered, wanted, still he knows she is not real. Can she forgive him, then, for not knowing that she was real that last time? For spitting out his hatred of the demons, the mages, the Maker, at her, thinking all the while she stood before him only in his mind?

* * *

He dreams of her, every night she is away. Of course, this is nothing new. He's been dreaming about her since he met her, a tiny slip of an elven girl with wickedly playful eyes, and a smile that would drive the Maker to his knees.

This morning, he wakes from a place in which his girl-Mage was eight months pregnant, in which he had rested his hand on her swollen belly and felt the child kick at his touch. His other hand clasped hers, fingers tightly intertwined.

He's given up fighting his dreams. He can't see past her tears to the better times they had shared, so his dreams, when they are good, are all the comfort he has left. He knows she is alive, rumor tells him as much. Beyond that, he knows nothing of what she does, where she is, save that she is far away.

* * *

The months grind away slowly, and he can barely function in his duty. Since she left, he has been at loose ends anyway, his sole responsibility taken from him. He helps to fill the watch rotation, but his suspicion of the few mages left is noted by both Greagior and Irving, and he is kept from the main floors, set instead to watch the doors to the phylactery chambers that had started the whole mess.

When the remaining mages leave for Redcliffe, he stays behind, still too fractured to function as either Templar or warrior among so many that he desires only to see dead. Too fractured to pretend to be human, yet. He is a failure, allowing his mage to be taken from him, failing to protect her, failing to protect the world from her, and now she leads the charge on the Archdemon, calling her allies to Redcliffe to fight. And he is not beside her, he is not where he belongs. He is trapped inside his head, fighting against the demons still, but now demons of his own making.


	10. On The Road Again, Surviving Orzammar

A/N - I'd forgotten how well snippets work when re-doing the Blight... I mean, lets face it, we're in this story for Cullen.

Also? Holy Cow! It updated!

**On The Road Again - Surviving Orzammar **

The Broodmother's body slumps, as Hespeth's lingering litany whips across Neria like a briar whip. "This is why they feed us…" The haunting whisper spoke of hunger, of desire, of hate. "This is why they need us." The Deep Roads frighten her, as not even the Fade can. In the Fade, her strength determines her vulnerability, and her will is iron. Here, her body is her weakness, her femininity her detriment.

"Promise me." Alistair's look is soft, understanding. "Be my sword, Alistair. When the time comes, show me mercy." The ex-almost Templar nods silently, as good as any declaration.

* * *

Days later, Dwarven treaty secure, she lays on her bedroll under the open sky, staring blankly at the fire, seeing nothing. Leliana's fingers comb through her hair as she rests her head on the bard's lap. The nocturnal rustlings of the camp are comforting, hearing the creak of leather shifting, the conversations in hushed whispers as supper is finished, watch is set.

"I would speak to her." Even Morrigan's sharp voice is soothing after the deep quiet of the underground. "Alone." Leliana silently lifts Neria's head, and surprisingly, Morrigan settles to take her place, shifting the mage into her own lap. Even the stroking fingers stay, though they concentrate more on untangling than on comforting.

"So many promises you collect, my sweet. So much loyalty." _Even mine_, the words go unspoken, but are loud in the gap. "You buy us all with your strength or your compassion, and you wonder, do you not, if such things can last?" Neria starts to respond, but Morrigan shushes her. "'Tis better, I think, if you allow me to give you this unchallenged. I saw in you, our Fearless Leader, a very great fear, these past few weeks. A fear spawned by the Deep Roads." The Witch's fingers tug gently at the mage's hair, a comforting pull. "I too, am a mage, and for all my rejection of the Circle teachings, I too, understand the dangers of the Fade. I am not, however, a Warden, and will never find myself faced with this worry that is now yours."

Neria can read the pity in her yellow eyes, her restless fingers digging into the Warden's scalp, small circles, tugging and soothing. "I cannot promise you that I will save you from this fate, as I would feel most… terrible, if I were to make such oath, and then find myself unable to fulfill it. But I will tell you this; should I be able, I will prevent it." The Witch gives a delicate sigh. "For I seem, despite myself, to love you every bit as much as your bumbling Templar, and I would spare you all the pain I can." A soft, soft laugh. "I should be furious at you, my dearest, only friend. For making me feel so. For taking me beyond power and survival."

* * *

"I wanted to wait, until everything was perfect. I wanted to know that you love me as much as I love you." His sigh is heavy, his hand in hers is trembling. "I know how I feel about you." She sees fear in his eyes, fear of rejection, fear of acceptance. "I know you love him." Gaze on the ground, his fingers play nervously against hers. "I can live with that." His face is flushed, his voice breathy and catching. "I…It's just, I know you love me too. And I want… I'm…we just don't know what will happen tomorrow…"

She lets him stumble, selfishly basking in his awkward adoration. Takes a deep breath, and admits to herself that _he_ hates her, _he_ pushed her away, and Alistair never has. Alistair has never reviled her simply for being what she is. Isn't Alistair a Templar too? She finally silences him by pressing her lips to his, and he pulls her into him roughly. Her hands slide under his tunic to caress his taunt stomach, telling him that she is _ready_. His hips press against her, telling her that _he_ is ready.

This time she leads. There are stumbles, knees where they shouldn't be, blushing and stammering, apologies and kisses. It is sweet and awkward. She shoves _him_ forcefully into the back of her thoughts, and immerses herself in Alistair.

* * *

There is guilt, but she will not face it, will not show it. She does love Alistair, maybe not with all her heart, but very much. They speak little of the future, once or twice of rebuilding after the Blight is finished, provided he is not a King by then, rather than a Bastard Prince. He hates the idea of ruling Ferelden, when he can't even lead their party.

She will not think of _him_.

* * *

The battle thrill hasn't yet sloughed from her body, the soft shimmer of magics yet to fade, the heavy smell of ice and lightening and power. He stands to her right, as always her shadow, until he becomes her shield. With a wave, she sends Zevran and Leliana to check for stragglers. His eyes are wild, sweeping down her body, pausing to tighten at the blood soaking into her robes. His hands follow, making short work of the simple clasps, until she stands bared before him. His fingers stroke the shallow wounds, smearing red over unblemished skin. Her gasp is pained, but by now he knows better than to let that stop him.

* * *

Amid the still bleeding corpses of their captors, she whispers softly in his ear "I'm here, I love you," over and again, her shoulders press against the bars of their cage, her legs wrap tightly around his hips, rocking as he moves in her, claims her for himself in the dungeon of Fort Drakon. He is not unaware of what the future may hold, but he will not give her up. Ever, for anyone.


	11. How to Kill an Archdemon is 8 Easy Steps

The Choice, the Throne, The Aftermath - How to Kill an Archdemon is 8 Easy Steps

A/N - I know it takes more than a few hours to get from Redcliffe to the Tower…unless you take a boat!

* * *

When Alistair tells her that he would need to marry to produce an heir, and she was not suitable, being mage, elf and Grey Warden, she snickers at him, and promises to help him pick a decent china pattern. When he asks if that was fair, to either his future wife, or to her, she shrugs, still smirking, and tells him that life is rarely fair, and Anora would have to content herself with being Queen, and Mother to the Heir. Alistair, astonished at his luck, agrees, and takes her to bed to celebrate the Landsmeet victory, Loghain's death, and all around happy times.

Returning to Redcliffe brings happy times to a crashing halt. Riordan comes as the bearer of bad news, and Morrigan comes as the bearer of disaster disguised as salvation. Neria _knows_ it is disaster, and refuses to even try to persuade Alistair. In a cloud of angered despair, Morrigan leaves, and Surana spends the night showing Alistair how very much she loves him.

She kisses him at the gates, and tells him he will be a wonderful King. As the rooftop of Fort Drakon floods with blood, darkspawn and elven, she catches a glimpse of him, wading through the battle toward the Archdemon. She snarls, and throws herself into the frenzy, spells laying waste to the monsters around her. When at last the battlefield is quiet, save the labored breath of the dying dragon, and the pained whimpers of the few surviving warriors, she sprints, but he catches her. "Let me." he whispers. "I can't let you die." She struggles in his grip, but he pulls her tight against his body, winds his fingers in her hair, and kisses her like he tastes heaven on her lips. "I love you, let me."

She kisses him back with a desperation she hasn't felt for a very long time. As her lips leave his, she starts to whisper the trigger for a spell to stun, but he is, after all, Templar trained, _she will always wonder where he found the strength_, and he rips the mana from her body, slams closed her connection to the Fade. His palm cups her jaw, he wraps her fingers tight around his mother's amulet, and whispers "Live, my heart." And he is gone. By the time she recovers enough to move, his sword is carving into dragon flesh, and she screams as he rams the blade home.

oOo

A hurried trip across the lake is an easy task for an ex-almost Templar, now an almost King. A sleepless night followed by what might be one last shared sunrise. As Neria checks and tends gear, restocks poultices and lyrium supplies, and hides her dismay and sorrow at Morrigan's departure, Alistair calls on the Tower.

The quiet knock on Cullen's door wakes him from twisting dreams, damp bedding and damp skin, he can't tell what is sweat and what is tears. It should have been another night of begging for forgiveness, only to be met with a silent smile from his dream love. But tonight's dream is different. Her eyes are not serene, as they look upon him. They burn instead with a raging fear, and her smile is gone. Her fingers reach out to touch him, haunting him with memory. He fells again the stutter of her heart, the convulsing of her flesh, a reminder of what once was, his no longer.

Even in his dream, her whisper is ragged and broken. "Beloved." Her lips ghost against his own, and the quiet but persistent knocking pull him from her.

The soon to be King stands, fist raised to knock again, as Cullen pulls the door open with a snarl. His scowl doesn't lessen any for seeing who has woken him. "What?"

Alistair only looks at the Templar, eyes wild, the tainted glaze threatening to spill over. "She told me about you. I need you to tell me her weakness."

Cullen's laugh is angry, a touch of bitterness in it. "And why, for love of Andraste, would I want to tell you that?"

With clenched jaw, Alistair tells him why, and after a moment of stunned silence, Cullen tells him how.

oOo

Her return to the Tower was a much quieter affair than her initial leaving, slinking away from Anora's court as though fleeing for her life. And perhaps she was, having allowed the Queen's father to be beheaded before all the Landsmeet, a traitor's fate.


	12. Ending in You

A/N - This was meant to be expanded, but circumstances being what they are, I may not get a chance anytime soon (and given my update frequency, by soon I could mean_ years_). And so, I give you what I have. If I have the chance, I may come back to it and flesh it out, but since I can't promise that...

I live in Brisbane, Australia, which was recently flooded. No where near on the scale of other countries, but it was close to home, and it was scary.

I was lucky, to keep my life, my family and my home. My every sympathy to those who were not.

Who Else But You? - Full Circle, or Ending As We Begin

His resolve shatters under the weight of Neria's grief. Her Warden lover had won the race to slay the Archdemon, leaving behind the broken girl-Mage Cullen currently cradles against his chest, whispering soothing nonsense as he strokes her snarled braids. He kisses her forehead and nose, and rocks her sobbing body as she bawls out her pain. The fingers of his free hand laced through hers as he strokes soft circles on her palm with his thumb. "I've got you now, my love," he murmurs, knowing she is too far gone to hear him just now. "Now and always."

"_He_" sob "_tricked_" sob "_me_", then a wordless wail.

Her frantic hands brush his flesh under his clothes, his blood roars in response to her touch, but he tempers it, allowing her to burrow into his embrace, pressing as much of her skin to his as she can manage.

oOo

She would go fearless to the Deep Roads when it was time. He would go with her, but was bidden only watch. His task has always been to watch her.

She confided in him one night, deep under the cover of a moonless night, naked in his arms, in his bed, about this thing she fears, even more than becoming a demon host. She told him a tale of the Deep Roads, of a Dwarven woman named Branka, and her clan. A tale of violation, tainted blood, and Broodmothers. She told him of Alistair's oath to kill her before allowing that to happen to her, and his respect for the fallen Warden had grown further. With his death, her fear was once more an almost certainty.

He reminded her gently that he had accepted her as his charge, but his task had no end. To never let her become the monster that she feared, and becoming this… creature, this terrified her.

"My duty, my love, is to you. Not to the Chantry, not to the Maker, not to men who seek to bind us with rules, around magics that they cannot understand. To you, the woman I love." And she was naked in his heart, and he in hers.

oOo

The journey to Orzammar is slow, beautiful and brilliant as they take their time, camping early, waking late, luxuriating in these last few weeks together, even if she does have to heat the streams and rivers for bathing. Their armor rides in the mule drawn cart, and their journey is blessed. Each night he wraps them up in the blankets, and they close out the world. When her dreams shake whimpers from her in her sleep, he wakes her, to soothe her, to love her. When his dreams cause him to cry out in terror, she wakes him, to whisper words of love and need into his ear. They don't bother with a watch on this suicide march.

As ever, he watches her, carving her path through the darkspawn one final time, sword held at bay by her plea. He watches her dance amid the gore, frozen corpses smoking, pings of lightning still arcing from her fingertips. The demon blades cannot find her to capture her, but her eyes hold her doom, blue fire curling down her cheeks, and they know. It is time.

"There are none nearby, my love." Her voice is pure moonlight, and her nimble fingers unclasp his armor, throw aside her own. She presses the hilt of her dagger to his palm, letting her fingertips caress. She slides her sweat damped skin against his, sheaths him in her heat, in her need. In the Deep Roads, she loves him. Her midnight voice strokes his soul. "Yours, Cullen. Always and forever, yours." When her body arches against him, both riding waves of pleasure, he loves her in the only way left to him.

The Legionnaires find him less than an hour later, still clad only in her blood, cradling his girl-Mage safely in his arms, his duty done.


End file.
